


The Adventure Of Ex-President Murillo

by Cerdic519



Series: Further Adventures Of Mr. Sherlock Holmes [65]
Category: Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Victorian, F/M, Killing, M/M, Politics, Romance, Slow Burn, Thunder and Lightning, Untold Cases of Sherlock Holmes, essex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-08-03
Updated: 2018-08-03
Packaged: 2019-06-21 04:43:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15549867
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Cerdic519/pseuds/Cerdic519
Summary: When a bitterly unpopular former leader of a Central American country meets his Maker courtesy of what seems like an Act of God, many are justifiably suspicious. Sherlock investigates a potentially delicate case on behalf of his annoying brother Mycroft and discovers the real cause of death.





	The Adventure Of Ex-President Murillo

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MelodyofWings](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MelodyofWings/gifts).



_Introduction by Sir Sherrinford Holmes, Baronet_

I was accustomed to picking up the _”Times”_ newspaper of a morning and finding all sorts of strange happenings across its broad expanse. But few can have matched the headline that would presage my brother Sherlock's next case, detailing the striking (in every sense) act of divine retribution against one of the small number of my fellow men whose removal from the planet I most heartily welcomed. Even if it meant having to read a headline such as 'Hail To The Chief.' Writers these days!

My own chief has just slouched into the room, grabbed his coffee and scowled at me. Kean does not do mornings. Then again, he does nights (and me!) so I can live with that.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

_Narration by Doctor John Hamish Watson, M.D._

During much of the nineteenth century relations between Great Britain and her former colonists in what was now the United States had often been fractious, starting from American support for the tyrant Napoleon Bonaparte and continuing through the interminable border dispute with Canada and of course the American Civil War, when the British government gave covert and often not so covert support to the South. Another cause of tension at this time was American involvement in the Pacific, and their destabilization of the Hawaiian Kingdom in a blatant attempt to take it over. 

Holmes scowled at the newspaper as if it had displeased him in some way.

“There has been a violent hailstorm in Essex”, he said, reading the article. “Widespread damage, over an area of one hundred square miles. And someone has been killed.”

“Death by hailstorm”, I mused. “Surely the ultimate Act of God.”

“In this case”, he said, “it may not have been.”

“What do you mean?” I asked. 

“The dead man was one Mr. Salvatore Murillo, former president of the Republic of San Quentin”, he said. “He fled to England earlier this year when there was yet another takeover of his country, this time with him on the receiving end. He had ruled for barely seven weeks, but in that time had killed or ordered killed over a thousand people if not more before fleeing with a large part of the country's treasury.”

I tensed at once. The newspapers had been quite graphic as to what that evil man had inflicted on his poor Central American country, and I had felt sullied on reading that he had fled to England of all places. And given the politics of the area, that meant a potential visit from a certain Mr. Mycroft Holmes was more than likely.

It was blatantly unfair that one could not set man-traps in private houses!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Sure enough Holmes' brother was announced later that same day. It was it seemed a day for Americana; Mrs. Hudson's grocers had supplied her with several bottles of a new drink called Coca-Cola of all things, which Holmes and I had both tried. I had found it disgusting and sickly, and had been sure that it would never catch on.

“This is most tiresome”, our visitor said. “I have more than enough on _my_ plate with this useless minority government of Rosebery's. You will have to go and investigate this for me, Holmes.”

“Investigate what?” Holmes said laconically. His brother sighed in a put-upon way (remember that he was the one demanding a favour here!).

“This mess all began back in 1860”, he said, “when the then government stupidly yielded to pressure from the Americans and effectively leased the Mosquito Coast, one of our few Central American possessions, to the state of Nicaragua. We had thought to have reached a compromise back in 'Eighty-One, but the Americans have been getting more and more into the area and earlier this year they occupied the capital Bluefields. Now Nicaragua is threatening to outright annex the Coast, which would lose us considerable face.”

“I am not concerned with governments losing face”, Holmes said dryly. “Except when it comes to entertainment value.”

His brother scowled at him.

“The point is that American involvement in the area was what allowed that rat Murillo to gain power in neighbouring San Quentin”, he said. It is a tiny place, barely twenty miles at its widest point, but they also own one small island in the Gulf so their reach extends a long way for such a small country. The French are building a canal across the isthmus further down in Colombia but the Americans want to take it over, because it will enable their ships to go between their two coasts without having to sail thousands of miles round Cape Horn. As you and anyone who reads the papers know, Murillo was such a disaster that he had to flee the place; why he came to England Lord alone knows.”

“The Americans suspect the British government of deliberately destabilizing his regime”, Holmes mused. “Did you?”

I was getting better at this, for I spotted the minuscule hesitation before his brother's answer.

“No!” he said firmly.

Holmes just looked at him. His brother harrumphed in annoyance.

“The Americans have been talking of a second canal across Nicaragua, but either way the position of San Quentin – and the latest administration there is pro-British which has annoyed our cousins no end – is vital.”

“Are you saying that President Murillo was murdered?” I ventured. “By whom?”

“The list of suspects would probably fill a book by itself”, Mr. Mycroft Holmes said acidly. “If not an encyclopædia! He still has some supporters back in San Quentin somehow, so dispatching him removes a source of annoyance for the new regime. And the Americans, Nicaraguans and Hondurans might all think that doing it would earn them credit in the eyes of the new regime.”

“Mr. Popular!” I snarked.

“Murder by a foreign power on British soil”, Holmes said thoughtfully. “That could have some unpleasant repercussions.”

“Indeed”, his brother said. “President Cleveland is also quite likely to intervene in the mess that the Spanish are making of nearby Cuba, so there is that to add to the mix too.”

“Where did the ex-president die? Holmes asked.

“A tiny place called Uxley, in Essex”, his brother said. “The back end of the back end of beyond.”

That was one of those moments that I wished that I was better at concealing my own emotions. Both brothers noticed at once.

“What is it, Watson?” Holmes asked. I hesitated.

“One of the people who writes to me regularly about your adventures lives there”, I said. “A lady by the name of Mrs. Melody Wing.”

“Part of your 'harem'?” Mr. Mycroft Holmes smirked. I decided that I could like him even less.

“She has supported my efforts for many a year”, I said stiffly, “right from the “Gloria Scott” case. She is the president of the Bradwell and Uxley Grammatical Society, a local reading and writing club.”

“Well, at least you have a contact there”, our visitor said. “You will inform me of your progress, Holmes.”

I wondered idly what were the chances of Mr. Mycroft Holmes being struck down by a hailstorm on the way back to his club – and why Holmes was looking at me like that.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The following day we headed to Liverpool Street Station and a suburban train which would take us to Wickford Junction where we could catch a train to Southminster, the nearest station to Bradwell. I noted that Holmes was unusually silent and wondered why.

“My brother has an annoying habit of keeping things from me”, he said. “I suppose it is working in government, but it does make my job harder.”

“You are saying that he lied?” I asked, surprised. He chuckled.

“People in government never _lie”_ , he said. “But there was clearly something that he did not tell me. I doubt even the American government would risk the very unpleasant fallout from one of their agents being caught murdering someone on another country's sovereign territory, even if it was someone as unpleasant as ex-president Murillo.”

“So there is something else?” I asked. He nodded.

“People like the ex-president do not go into exile without taking certain wise precautions”, he said, “otherwise they tend to have the life expectancy of the average mayfly. Clearly the man had some sort of information that Mycroft thinks I will stumble across and hand over to him. I wonder what that is?

I shook my head at his brother's behaviour. One could not trust anyone these days!

The Southminster branch ran along the southern part of the Hundred of Dengie, a wild area that it was hard to believe was so close to the mess that was London. Alighting at the terminus we hired a carriage which took us through Asheldham, Dengie itself, Tillingham and Bradwell-on-Sea (which rather curiously was not on the sea), before heading towards the North Sea coast. About halfway along the road there was a small gathering of five or six houses astride a side-track which comprised the hamlet of Uxley, near which the ex-president had met his doom.

Before departing London Holmes had arranged rooms for us at the King's Head in Bradwell-on-Sea, and I had wired ahead to Mrs. Wing to let her know that we would be in the area. I had not of course received or expected a reply from such a remote area, so I hoped that our unexpected arrival would be welcome. 

It was. Mrs. Wing was delighted to see us both, and her husband Jonathan was equally welcoming. She was more than willing to tell us what she knew of the death of the ex-president.

“The newspapers are calling it an Act of God!” she snorted disdainfully, her American accent still notable despite over two decades in England. “Bunkum! Unless God has suddenly taken to locking his own door!”

“Perhaps you might tell us the whole sequence of events”, Holmes said politely.

“We had a meeting of the Society on that day, the twenty-fourth”, she reminisced. “We are normally six in number but three of us are away on holiday, so it was just myself, the Reverend Carter and Rod.”

“The ex-president?” I asked, confused.

“No, his manservant”, she explained. “Rodrigo Vincenze Alejandro Felipe San Carlos, which shows why we just call him Rod. Huge hulk of a man but a good fellow; he's seeing a village girl. Ellis Highnam, the vicar's niece. We finished at about eight and the vicar left to walk back to the village. Rod had told us that he and his master had walked down the village earlier and that he would be calling for him on his way back. He did and the two left for their place, which is close to the old chapel, at about ten past eight. It was still light at the time but the sun was almost set.”

I nodded. The 'old chapel' was indeed that, one of the oldest Christian churches in England, founded by St. Chad back in the seventh century amidst the ruins of an old Roman fortress, as he strove to turn the East Saxons from their pagan ways. Successfully, albeit after a long struggle.

“Did the ex-president come here?” Holmes asked. She shook her head.

“He waited down at the turning for here”, she said. “Just as well; I know that one is not supposed to speak ill of the dead, but I could not stand the man! Fortunately we are on a slight rise so we could see him coming from the village. I dread to think how he would have reacted had he had to wait for Rod.”

The ex-president sounded a veritable loss to humanity, I thought wryly. 

“Rod told me later that his master had wanted to go to the chapel to pray for a while”, Mrs. Wing continued. “I found that a bit odd; I did not think that the man was the least bit religious but I suppose you never know. Rod did try to dissuade him – it had been a hot day and the clouds threatened some heavy rain – but the man insisted. Just after they parted company at the crossroads, the storm struck. Rod ran to the house but his master must have decided to make for the chapel as he would have been safe in there. But for some reason the building was locked and he was trapped outside.

I knew what that meant. The Hundred was predominantly flat and with little cover except for its buildings. Anyone caught outside in the hailstorm that had hit this area – our driver had pointed out what it had done to an old abandoned barn – might as well have stood in front of a firing-squad. 

“Who had a key to the chapel?” Holmes asked.

“The vicar has one and the light-house keeper the other”, she said. On seeing our confused faces she went on, “the light-house stands not far from the chapel, and the keeper keeps a general eye on the place. Alaric Peters his name is, but I do not see why he would have locked it. It is a holy place after all.”

“What about the distances?” Holmes asked thoughtfully. “How far is it from the crossroads to all three buildings?”

Our hostess thought for a moment. 

“Mr. Murillo's house is about a hundred yards due north”, she said. “Perhaps slightly less. The light-house is about three to four hundred yards east, maybe east by north-east. And the chapel must be about two hundred yards to the south.”

I drew her explanation as a diagram. Holmes looked at my drawing and frowned.

“Was Mr. Rodrigo treated for any injuries arising from his exposure to the hailstorm?” he asked.

“Yes”, she said. “Doctor Fuller said that he had some quite bad ones.”

“Indeed”, Holmes said.

We both looked at him expectantly.

“Indeed what?” I asked.

“Well, it seems quite obvious”, he said. 

“Was it murder?” Mrs. Wing asked, clearly as confused as I was.

“That is difficult to day”, Holmes said cagily. “Murder requires malice aforethought, and I believe an English jury would most likely consider that there had not been any in this case. Whilst I do not doubt that the killer may have eventually resorted to murder, he instead took an opportunity presented to him by an Act of God and turned it to his own ends. I think that we should pay a call on the vicar just to clarify my theory and then all will be done.”

We both stared at him.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

The Reverend Jonathan Carter was, I sensed, wary of us for some reason. I wondered why.

“I do hope that the great detective does not suspect a man of the cloth”, he said.

“I have had clerical killers before”, Holmes said lightly. “Indeed, I recall one priest who most calamitously killed someone without meaning to, and an Act of God was involved there too. No, I just wish for some answers to one or two questions that I have. When you and Mr. Rodrigo visited Mrs. Wing's house, were you both on time?”

The vicar looked at him suspiciously but answered.

“Rod was a little late”, he said. “I think his master wanted to go for a walk and of course he took Rod along. I remember him – Rod – saying that he feared he might miss the Society meeting, but that his master had said that he was seeing someone in the village and would collect him on the way back when the meeting was over. I left before them both.”

“Do we happen to know who he was seeing?” Holmes asked. The vicar shook his head.

“No”, he said. “All I do know, because I was there, is that he did not visit the pub. I am just grateful that he let Rod attend the club; I would not have put it past the man to stop him through sheer spite.”

“Mr. Rodrigo seems amazingly well-read for a recent arrival to our shores”, Holmes said smiling.

“He may look like a hired thug but he is in fact a most gentle man”, the vicar said defensively. “He has a particular preference for Shakespeare, but we disagree over Dickens of whom he is not overly fond.”

I could sympathize with the incomer there. I found the great man depressing at times, although “A Christmas Carol” was one of my favourite works.

“I would also welcome your opinion of the late Mr. Murillo”, Holmes said. The vicar's face darkened.

“As a man of the cloth I am always inclined towards charity as regards my fellow humans”, he said loftily. “But that man did not have a single redeeming facet to his character! I have read of the depredations that he inflicted on his distant countrymen during his short and disgraceful misrule, and I know that he often treated poor Rod badly, especially after the man took up with my niece. If God himself had not removed him, I am sure that one of his former countrymen would have hunted him down and finished him off. And the world is a better place without him.”

I could suddenly see this vicar locking the chapel door and smiling as the hail beat a man to death outside. And he did have a key to the place. I shuddered.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Holmes wished to see the scene of the crime so we first went to the light-house before returning to the crossroads and walking down to the tiny chapel. It was a lovely simple building, and it seemed incredible that it had stood here symbolizing an outpost of Christianity for over twelve centuries. Of the Roman fort over which it had been raised and which was but a few centuries older, there was no sign. Such was the enduring power of Christianity.

The building was not empty. A slender young blonde lady was kneeling down and praying, whilst a tall and muscular dark-haired man stood silently beside her. Holmes did not advance to disturb them and stepped outside to wait for them both. Presumably they were the mysterious Rodrigo and Miss Ellis Highnam, I guessed.

The two came out of the chapel and I thought instinctively that they were an odd match, the huge muscular swarthy foreigner and the tiny English lady. My friend broke into my thoughts.

“Good afternoon”, he said softly, “I am here about the killing that you committed recently.”

Rodrigo took an angry step towards him only for the girl to place a restraining hand on his huge shoulder. I would have doubted that anything could stop this man-mountain, but he froze at once and looked uncertainly at her.

“It's all right, Roddy”, she said quietly. “Let them speak.”

“It was ironic, was it not?” Holmes said quietly. “When one looks at all the hundreds if not thousands of people that Mr. Murillo killed, many in person, and all the crimes that he committed as president. Yet what finally did for him was a combination of some unwise words and an Act of God.”

“Go on”, Miss Highnam said. I noted that she kept her hand on the giant, holding him in place. 

“You, Rodrigo, lied about the circumstances of your return home”, Holmes said. “Your master collected you from Mrs. Wing's house, that we know from the evidence of others, but your journey was not uneventful. Possibly words were exchanged in which Mr. Murillo accused you either of treachery, or of seeing an English girl and establishing ties here when he himself wanted to return to San Quentin one day. Certain it is that tempers were high by the time you reached that crossroads yonder.”

“He did both!” Rodrigo growled. I silently wished that I had brought my gun and not left it in my bag back at the King's Head.

“And it was singularly unfortunate that Miss Highnam here, having seen your employer in the village, had walked to the house to see you and of course missed you as she had forgotten that it was your book club night”, Holmes went on. “When she met you both at the crossroads, Mr. Murillo said something that you could not forgive. I do not doubt that the time was fast approaching when you would have felt compelled to betray your master, even if it were something as passive as informing his many enemies as to his hiding-place. But as it turned out you did not need to.”

“You did not, as you later told Mrs. Wing, leave your master at the crossroads. When he said those disrespectful things about the girl that you loved, you punched him and rendered him unconscious. I do not doubt that you considered taking him into the house to recover, but at that precise moment the great storm broke.”

“It quickly became clear that this was no normal storm, and that anyone out in it ran the risk of severe injury if not death. The two of you decided that as God had forced your hand, you would use the opportunity for your own ends. You, Rodrigo, ordered Miss Highnam to take cover in the house whilst you easily hoisted the body of your master and carried it to lie against the door of the chapel. You took shelter inside until the storm had abated, whilst the hail beat your unconscious master to death.”

The two stared at him in silence.

“I was puzzled by two things arising from Mrs. Wing's most excellent description of this area”, Holmes said. “Firstly, if matters had happened as you had claimed then you would have had to have run a distance of less than one hundred yards to reach shelter, yet you subsequently needed treatment for your injuries. And if he truly had faced a locked door at the chapel, Mr. Murillo could easily have run the three hundred yards or so back to his house - unless of course he was in no fit state to move.”

“The rest is easy. Miss Highnam returns to the village, and you, Rodrigo, use the same darkness to retrieve the key kept by the light-house owner – it hangs on a nail in an unlocked porch, I saw earlier – and lock the door to the chapel before returning it. The superstitious – and the London newspapers - will say that God saw such an unholy man approaching his house and took measures to keep him out.”

“He was evil!” Miss Highnam almost spat out. “The world is a better place without him. And we did not kill him.”

“Not directly”, Holmes said. “Rodrigo, what happened to the papers that he kept?”

The huge man baulked but sighed under Holmes' steady gaze.

“They were on him when he died”, he said. “Soaked through by the storm and totally useless.”

“That is all for the best”, Holmes said. “Your own lives might be in peril if any of those with an interest in the man's death thought otherwise. This is difficult and regretfully the doctor here will not be able to publish this case for many a year. I am not superstitious, but I am inclined to view that hailstorm as the means of death of, as you say madam, an evil man. But” - he wagged an admonitory finger at them both - “be sure that neither of you ever comes to my attention again!”

“We shall not!” Rodrigo said fervently, wrapping a huge arm around his lady. And whatever anyone later said, I did not move behind my friend at that moment.

I still knew that he was smirking though!

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩

Despite the late hour, we called in on Mr. and Mrs. Wing on our way back and Holmes explained the case to them, enjoining them to keep it secret. We made our way back to the peace and quiet of the King's Head and enjoyed a restful night before our return the following day.

Just over two years later, a card would arrive at Baker Street informing us of the births of Rodney and Elizabeth St. Charles, son and daughter to Mr. and Mrs. Roderick St. Charles of Bradwell-on-Sea in the Hundred of Dengie, Essex.

۩۩۩۩V♔RI۩۩۩۩


End file.
